Hewitt - Heavens Promise

This was when I loved up London the most, when the sun blazed down from an azure sky of such staggering beauty that the people seemed to hit the relax mode and lose all their burdens, for even if you held no cashola, which is the biggest drag there is, just to be a character in such an oil painting was a rare treat in itself. That Mary in Brief Encounter certainly hit the spot when she went into one about Britain being so much better to live in if the sun came out and about a lot more, and quite right too, madam, for the heat, like a great massage, loosened up all the glum faces and tight mouths as smoothly as a top burglar picking locks. Invigorated by the disappearance of winters grey skies, which depressingly blended in with so many of the Citys buildings that it made you wonder if the architects of these drab, grey edifices had never been introduced to colour, everyone seemed to re-energise themselves as they were reminded just how beautiful the world can be. It was a welcome respite from the intolerable strain of winter but, even so, there was no getting away from the fact that this heat, which now spread itself so languorously over town, came from a different kind of sun, one that gave off a dry and brittle heat that no one was used to. Apologies for hitting the same riff but there was something slightly disturbing about this relentless heat because that summer, as the suns harsh rays mingled with the citys fumes, cyclists flashed by with huge pads of cotton wool stuffed in their mouths, a flash of a future that I didnt want to live in, and confirmation that severe adjustments in our way of life would have to be made, no doubt about it, if we were to enter the next decade in some kind of shape. Over at Papas, in endless cappuccini discussions, Brother P. and I debated the changes that we could sense in the air and tried to make sense of all this shifting scenery, but, unfortunately, and much to our distress, we were constantly interrupted by the raging arguments that erupted every time Papa and his son were within ten yards of each other. Paolo, a good looking 14 year old, who had been blessed with his fathers large eyes and his mothers delicate facial features, which was topped off by a lustrous mop of curly, jet black hair, would be sharing a capo with us, his football bag ever present and correct, when Papa would shout over to him, Eh, the football season is over. Where do you think youre going? Dont you think you should be helping out your famiglia?

Im going training, Papa, the reply would come, Paolo not even bothering to look over to his illustrious padre.

Youre going training? Training on a day like this when were rushed off our feet, sweating like pigs to put food in front of you. What about doing some training for here? Eh, what about that? One day this will be yours and then what you going to do? Eh! Answer me. And what about me and mama. You ever think about us when youre training? You ever think about us when youre kicking a ball around all day? What is the matter with you?

Nothings wrong with me, Papa, except the father I was given, and then Marissa, who had been carefully clocking the argument, would put down everything and quickly stand between the two of them before it really got out of hand, and tell them to act like grown men instead of bambini.

Stop it now, she would command as Papa shouted at the top of his voice that his son had no respect, and that he would teach him a lesson, and Paolo responded by turning his back on him even more.

Brother P. and I never interfered, as you can imagine, but I have to say that my votes were with Paolo. To most people, his dream of playing the professional seemed a thousand miles away but, as he always insisted, and quite right too, why shouldnt he realise it? Others had, why not he?

Its only yourself who stops you in this life, Paolo told us, so bright and clear for a boy of his age.

Even if I fail, so what? I tried and thats more than most people even attempt. But Im good enough. I know I am. I feel it. Here, and he tapped his heart twice with a confidence that was proud and, I have to say, not a little inspiring.

See, he continued, I dont know why but Ive always been haunted, from an early age, by the thought of getting old and realising that you never did in life what you really wanted to, never even tried it, just thought to yourself, ah, I cant do that and left it at that. A whole life wasted because you talked yourself out of your purpose. Thats terrible. Papa doesnt see it because he achieved what he wanted but its not what I want. Its unfair to force it all on me because I never asked for all this in the first place.

Hes only doing what he thinks is best for you, I put in. but, really there was no need to articulate such a sentiment because Paolo knew that and, despite all the hot words and the raised fists, the stinging insults and the botheration, the fact remained that, deep in their hearts, they loved each other up fully and would always be there for each other if the crunch really came down.

Both knew it but both wanted to prove that love in different ways.

You wait until I make it, Papa will be so proud, Paolo prophesied. Dont tell him but a scout has already put in an offer for when I leave school. I was top scorer in the league last year.

Thats great, Brother P. said. Does Papa know?

Paolo scowled. These days, he refuses to come and see me play. I dont think hes seen me on the pitch for two years now.

The fact of the matter, Paolo continued, picking up his bag and collecting himself up, is that I will make it, no doubt about it, and, I have to say, it was hard not to be impressed by the boys utter certainty in himself, for at a tender 14 years of age he already knew where he was going and few people twice his age, possessed that fact. Papa was not impressed with his departing son.

Marissa, he shouted, Im going to see Father Espositio tonight. Perhaps hell be able to to talk some sense into his stupid head, and he stalked back into the kitchen, leaving me with the thought that maybe I would be better off with the priests counselling, for the truth of the matter was that Sandra had arrived back from Trinidad some 10 months back, set on course for motherhood.

I had parlared with her on three separate occasions, the worst time being the first time we met up in mid July, to supposedly discuss if she was going to go ahead with the birth, this meet up taking place in a chainstore pizza parlour. Her stomach had now started to noticeably swell up and, when she finally walked in, after keeping me waiting for twenty minutes, the sight of her condition caused a rumble of rage to go off inside me. I tried to hold it down, bite my tongue and act civil.

Alright?

Alright.

She ordered garlic bread to be followed by ice cream whilst I settled for a cappuccino and, hopefully, the confirmation that she would soon be out of this condition and back to normal.

How was Trinidad? Your family okay?

Oh, I had a great time.

I reached for a cigarette.

Id rather you didnt if you dont mind, Ive given up.

Sure. A silence, and then, So did you come to any decision while you were away?

Im having the baby, our baby. Its too late to stop now even if I wanted to.

How do you mean?

Well you cant get an abortion after 13 weeks.

I felt the ground give way beneath me as it came to me how she had brilliantly bamboozled me.

You knew before you went away, didnt you? All that stuff about wanting to think things over. It was bullshit. You tricked me. You fucking well tricked me!

Sorry, was all she could say.

I stared at her in complete disbelief.

Cant you see that Im not into this at all. Cant you open your eyes and see that. What is wrong with you?

I dont care, she coolly replied. Its my body, my decision. Thats it.